


Shooting Stars of Yesteryear

by china_shop



Series: Waltzverse [10]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, F/M, Identity Porn, M/M, Multi, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-23 03:45:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3753274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're suggesting we role-play being ourselves." / Peter and Neal get nostalgic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shooting Stars of Yesteryear

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to mergatrude and sherylyn for beta. <3
> 
> This is set about a year after [Waltz for Communications Satellites](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3714049).

Peter's life was perfect. He had two amazing partners and a bright, healthy son. A steady, well-paying job. Satchmo was getting on, but that was a fact of life; nothing lasted forever. He had all he could reasonably ask for. So when spring brought with it the restless stirring of nostalgia, he stayed busy and soldiered on as best he could.

"Is everything okay, hon?" asked El, after Mikey was in bed, and they'd all collapsed on the couch. "You seem—"

"—distracted," Victor finished for her. They'd been doing that ever since they started working together: finishing each other's sentences, laughing at each other for no obvious reason. Usually it made Peter's heart swell with affection.

"I just have a lot on my plate," he said. "I'm great. I love you both."

El smiled fondly, as if she could see right through him, and she snuggled closer. Victor looked thoughtful.

The next evening, El announced she was taking Mikey upstate to see her sister for the weekend. "It's my last Saturday without any work commitments until the end of May, and Anne invited me."

El hadn't seen much of her family since they'd come out at Thanksgiving. Peter hugged her. "You want one of us to come with you? Or both?"

"I think Anne's going to ask me a lot of nosy, tactless questions about threesome sex," said El. "Probably best if I take this one for the team. I can always use Mikey as a human shield."

"Ooh, that means I get Peter to myself," said Victor, as if he and El hadn't obviously planned it that way. Still, Peter couldn't object. One-on-one time with either of them was precious and rare because of Mikey and their busy lives. And while being together as a family was great—it was _home_ on a fundamental, cellular level—Peter had always communicated better one-on-one.

He knew El and Victor wouldn't let it rest until he'd found a way to put his vague mental itch into words, so on Friday lunchtime he went for a walk along the Hudson and tried to pin it down in his own mind, get to the root of what was really bothering him. 

It took him all the way to the Chelsea Piers to get a line on it, and when he did, it was small, subtle and painfully hypocritical. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, feeling like the world's biggest ingrate. 

 

*

 

"Oh no," said Victor, when Peter dumped a stack of files on the dining table that evening. "I'm taking the evening off, and so are you." He set aside his guitar—a cheesy, gold-painted monstrosity El had inexplicably given him for Christmas—and came to kiss Peter hello. 

Peter pulled him close and breathed him in. "Hey, you."

"Good day?" Victor pulled back to look at him, one eyebrow twitching up in query.

Peter sighed and broke loose to get himself a beer. "Let's talk."

"Should I be worried?" asked Victor, calm and amused. He poured himself a glass of red wine and leaned against the breakfast island, so sure of his place in their home that Peter had to kiss him again.

"I love you."

This time both Victor's eyebrows twitched. "But—?"

Peter wanted to say, _No buts. Everything's perfect._ But he had to get this over with. Get it back in proportion—a meaningless niggle. He took a mouthful of beer. "It's no big deal. I just miss—" 

He broke off, unable to say it, and Victor tried to fill in the blank. "Us working together? Having El to yourself? Something else?"

Peter shook his head and took a different tack. "You gave up a lot to live here with us. Do you ever regret it?"

"Hey, I know I traded up. I'm well aware." Victor searched Peter's face. "That's not what you're asking."

"No, it's not." Peter put down his beer and shifted his weight. "Look, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but all that con artist stuff you used to do, the little tricks and scams, picking my pocket, the heists—I spent years trying to get you to stop."

"Yeah, you put me in prison," said Victor drily. "I remember."

"It was my job," said Peter, refusing to be guilt-tripped. Victor was the man he was today partly because of his prison sentence, and who he was today was extraordinary: successful, happy, settled and at peace. A loving partner and father, loyal to the core. And it was absolutely not his fault that Peter yearned for—a touch of something else.

"The lure of the forbidden, huh?" said Victor, reading Peter's mind.

He grimaced, embarrassed. "It's just a stupid itch. It'll pass."

Victor gave him back his beer bottle and moved so they were leaning against the counter, shoulder to shoulder, staring at nothing. "Aside from the heists themselves, you know what I miss most about the life?" he said slowly. "Post-heist sex. That was an incredible rush."

Peter could imagine. The lure of the forbidden, indeed. His native caution baulked. "I'm not saying I want you to do something stupid."

Victor rolled his eyes, the _Trust me_ so timeworn it was implicit. "Jones once told me choices are sacrifices—giving up something you want for something you want more. Took me a while to accept he was right, but here I am." He clinked his glass against Peter's bottle in a silent toast and sipped his wine. "But we can still pretend to have it all. Want to play cops and robbers, Peter?"

"You're suggesting we role-play being ourselves." Peter started to smile.

Victor smirked back. "Our past selves, when you were chasing me." 

"Before the anklet." Peter turned to face him, looking behind the familiar beard and the gray glints in his hair to the brilliant Neal Caffrey, young and reckless, taking hair-raising risks and pulling off impossible feats, passionate and mischievous and free as the wind. All those late-night phone calls from international numbers. The confusing buzz of excitement Peter used to get from seeing Neal's name in Interpol reports. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "Want me to get my cuffs?"

Victor laughed. "Give me a day or two to set it up."

"In the meantime—" Peter set aside his beer again and cupped Victor's face in both hands, kissing him deeply, tasting the fervor of his response. Victor must have discarded his drink too, because he raked both hands down Peter's back under his suit jacket, sending a flush of urgency through Peter's body. 

Peter shrugged off the jacket without breaking the kiss and slid to his knees, unfastening Victor's pants as he went, hungry for him. Within seconds, he'd negotiated pants' fly and shiny boxer briefs, and he had his lips around Victor's hard, heavy cock, and Victor's thighs trembling under his hands. He ran his thumbs along the creases at the top of Victor's legs and back to tease his balls, and above him Victor groaned and swore and started thrusting, carefully at first but with increasing abandon.

It was mind-blowing. Peter had only rarely had kitchen sex since Mikey was born, and never like this, letting Victor use him, letting him do whatever he wanted. Sweat prickled across Peter's forehead, down his chest, and he was so turned on it actually hurt, but he didn't care. Nothing mattered but the thrill of getting Victor off.

Sometimes Victor could go for marathon sex sessions, but apparently this was not one of those times. He grunted and said Peter's name, and then pulsed bitter and salty in Peter's mouth and crumpled down to kiss him. His chest was heaving, his shirt blotted with sweat. "God, if I'd known before," he said breathlessly. His eyes were hazy and dark. "I always thought you regretted my past."

"I don't regret anything about you, not then, not now." Peter leaned in again so Victor could taste himself in the kiss, their tongues sliding together, the rasp of his neatly trimmed beard.

Victor let out a shuddering sigh and delved between them to grope Peter's erection through his pants. "Have I ever mentioned how very glad I am you tricked me into coming home?"

"Me too," said Peter, and for the rest of the weekend the restless itch was gone, dispelled by gratitude and love for what was right in front of him.

 

*

 

The phone call came four days later when he was packing up for the night, and whoever it was—Peter had his suspicions—was using a voice changer. "Agent Burke?"

"Who is this?"

"A concerned citizen. If you're looking for Caffrey, he'll be in the penthouse suite of the Ganzebord Hotel from six o'clock."

"Why are you—" he started, but the caller had already disconnected. 

Peter shook his head. Trust Victor to go all out. The itch had faded now—putting it into words had neutralized it somehow—but he couldn't deny he got a kick from hearing the words _hotel_ and _Caffrey_ in the same sentence. He took out his badge and gun and called El to say he'd be late home.

"I know, hon," she told him, a grin in her voice. "Mikey and I are fine. Have fun chasing Neal."

 

*

 

The hotel suite's door was ajar. Peter instinctively put his hand on his gun, leaving it holstered, and slowed his approach, but there were no sounds from inside, no voices, just some vaguely familiar pop music he hadn't heard in a decade. When he reached the door, he nudged it open with his foot and stepped inside.

Victor was clean-shaven. That was the first thing he noticed. 

Then something clicked into place, the years fell away, and it wasn't Victor; it was Neal standing barefoot by the window, looking out across the park as if he owned it. The shirt of his security guard uniform hung open—he looked like a goddamned stripper—and he was drinking from a champagne glass and practically glowing with felonious accomplishment. "Hello, Peter. Champagne?"

"I'm on duty," said Peter, dry-mouthed. Turned on. This was the ultimate—wrong, so wrong—fantasy. He shut the door after him and skirted the black leather couches and ice-bucket stand, and nearly tripped over a gym bag, open to reveal the corner of a wooden crate roughly the size of a Joseph Cornell that had gone missing from the MoMA last week. For a split second, Peter wondered if that theft had been planned, part of this game, but the suspicion evaporated as soon as it formed. He knew Victor better than that.

He put his hands on his hips, making sure his badge was visible where it was clipped to his shoulder holster. "Where did you hit this time—the Met?"

Neal prowled toward him, long-limbed and athletic, an appreciative gleam in his eye. "Come on, Peter. I can't make it that easy for you."

Peter wanted to grab him, to bend him over the couch and maul him, but it was too soon. Neal—Victor—hadn't gone to all this trouble for five seconds of small talk. "Fine. I'll figure it out."

He started investigating, all of his senses alert. Two of the hotel paintings had been tampered with but probably just as a distraction. There was a wad of cash, a passport and some papers bundled by the phone. Instinctively, he went to open the bathroom door.

"Do you have a warrant?" Neal asked from right behind him.

"Nope," he said. "You should call a lawyer." Behind the shower curtain, the bath was filled with a tangle of discarded rappelling gear and climbing shoes. 

The bathroom led into the bedroom, where three paintings were stacked against the bed, loosely covered with a blanket. Upon closer inspection, they were all famous Van Goghs. Perfect forgeries. Exasperation and arousal rose up in tandem. "Dammit, Neal." 

The name came easily, despite Peter's having spent the last year learning to think of him as Victor. It was as if the thinnest of veils had been ripped away. His pulse raced.

He grabbed Starry Night and strode back into the living room. "I should arrest you right now."

Neal drained his champagne glass and set it down deliberately, then swaggered over till he was so close they were breathing the same air. He looked amused and maddeningly sure of himself. His gaze that searing blue. "Are you going to cuff me, Peter?"

"I should, after everything you've done, but—" Peter dropped the painting, flung off his suit jacket and grabbed him by the shoulders, alert for indicators of whether Neal was aiming to top or bottom. Right now, Peter could go either way, so he kept his words ambiguous. "I've got something else in mind for you this time."

"That's right," said Neal, approvingly. "Why take me downtown when you can take me here?" With one of his flashy, sleight-of-hand gestures, he produced a tube of lube and pressed it into Peter's palm. That answered that. Something in Peter snapped, and he yanked him close and kissed him mercilessly, one part fury, three parts naked lust.

Neal shuddered and squirmed closer, kissing back eager and open-mouthed, grabbing Peter by the straps of his holster and trying to _climb_ him. He was a force of nature, a whirlwind. Peter staggered back, and they landed hard against the wall by the bedroom, knocking the air out of Peter's lungs. He wheezed, and a flicker of fond concern—of Victor—crossed Neal's face, but then Peter recovered and it was gone, the fantasy seamless again.

In a brief moment of sanity, Peter took off his gun and set it on a side-table, and then Neal was on him, biting the angle of his neck above his collar hard enough to leave a mark. Peter swore and shoved him far enough away he could tear the shirt from Neal's shoulders and attack his belt. 

Within seconds Neal had pushed his pants to his knees—no silk boxer briefs today—and Peter was sliding slicked-up fingers into him, carefully at first, until Neal urged him into a hard, fast rhythm.

Peter didn't wait long. He turned Neal to the wall, slathered himself with lube and slammed home, making Neal groan deep in his throat. "Fuuuck, yes, Peter—"

Peter gasped, overwhelmed by need, dizzy with the way Neal was arching back to meet him, braced against the wall and trying to work himself on Peter's cock because Peter wasn't moving. If Neal was the irresistible force, it was up to Peter to counter that.

He leaned in, draping himself across Neal's hot, naked back, and murmured in his ear, "What's in the crate, Neal? What are the Van Goghs for?"

Neal stilled. A ripple of tension passed through his body. "Great interrogation technique, Peter. Unorthodox. Bet that's not in the FBI manual."

"Tell me." Peter grabbed Neal by the hair and thrust again, once, hard. 

"Oh." Neal whined, sounding like he was barely keeping it together. He took a couple of ragged breaths, then managed, "What if I don't want to tell you?"

Peter growled and let loose, pounding into him as if fueled by years of pent-up desire. He hadn't known back then what these feelings signified; he'd believed it was about enforcing the law, about admiration for a worthy adversary and exasperation at Neal's reckless self-endangerment. But now it seemed it had always, at the core of it, been desire between them. Desire and mutual possessiveness. Peter reached for Neal's cock and stroked him roughly, in time with his thrusts, and Neal quaked and breathed, "No, don't, want to last," so he smoothed down his chest instead, loving him, shifting gears from hard sex with an edge of frustration to something equally forceful but more generous, more beautiful.

After a while they moved to the bed, Neal on his back now, and Peter over him, fumbling to get back inside, to keep going. Neal blinked up, devilish and disheveled. "You know, you've got way too many clothes on."

Peter obediently sat back, kicked off his shoes so he could lose the pants and shorts. Unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and loosened the catch on his shoulder holster. 

Neal hooked two fingers through the holster, stopping him. "Keep this."

Peter rolled his eyes, but when he'd divested himself of the rest of his clothes, he shrugged back into the holster. "Pervert."

"Absolutely." Neal waited until Peter was inside him and they'd re-established their rhythm, long driving thrusts now. Then he added, "Actually I, uh—I kind of want to come— _oh_ , on your badge."

Peter snorted, but at this stage he was so far gone he would have let Neal defile a genuine Van Gogh. He unclipped the badge from his holster and laid it squarely on Neal's sweat-streaked chest. "Go on then. Do it."

Neal's lips parted, a blend of surprise and arousal, and he gripped his cock and jacked himself fervently. The next second he was coming, spurting onto the metal and leather as if his con artist talents extended to orgasm marksmanship or something equally ridiculous. It was dirty and irreverent, and Peter couldn't help himself. The tight dark heat at his core flared, sending passion arcing through him like an electric charge, too intense to hold in. He let loose in Neal's ass, thrusting until he was wrung completely dry and starting to soften.

Then he pulled out and flopped onto the bed. Grabbed Neal by the wrist.

Neal twisted free easily enough and got up on one elbow, looking down at him with Victor's smile. "You realize none of this is admissible, lawman."

"I don't care about admissible. I care about catching you." Peter dragged him down and kissed him thoroughly, lost in the nebulous, sated space between past and present. 

Neal rubbed his smooth chin along Peter's jaw, down his neck. "Promise to keep fucking me like that, I might let myself get caught."

 

*

 

"Hey, hon," said El, when Peter got home. She put aside her book. "Where's Victor? Have you guys eaten?"

"He had some incriminating evidence to dispose of. He'll be home soon. And I'm good—I think we spent about twice our weight in gold on room service." Peter went to sit next to her and pulled her into a hug. "I love you."

"I know." She kissed him and grinned at the stains on his shirt. "Was it hot?"

"Almost as mind-blowing as _our_ first time." Peter absently prodded the bruise on his neck where Neal had bitten him. "I just hope he doesn't think I don't appreciate him for who he is now." He'd had time to start worrying about misinterpretation of motives on the drive home.

"So talk to him," said El, comfortably. "I'm going to bed. Satch still needs to go out, but Mikey was a monster this evening—he wanted his dads—and I'm beat."

"On it. 'Night, hon." Peter forced himself to his feet and got the leash, and Satchmo trotted over, alert as ever for the signs that it was walk-time. They circumnavigated the block at a leisurely pace, and by the time they got back, a cab was idling outside the townhouse. 

Peter took Satchmo inside, leaving the door open, and a moment later Victor came in and shut it. He was wearing a Caffrey-style hat and carrying a familiar flat wooden crate under one arm. "Found this on the stoop. Also, you left your gun at the hotel." 

He produced it from the back of his waistband and passed it over, handgrip first.

"Oh, hell." Peter locked it in the sideboard drawer, abashed at having been so careless, but Victor just looked smug. Seducing a federal agent to the point where he left his firearm lying around probably counted as a five-star review in Neal Caffrey terms. Fair enough, too.

"Is El in bed already?" He dropped the crate on an armchair and gave Peter a punch on the arm. "Hey there, slugger, how was your day? Cheat on us with any internationally renowned art thieves?"

"Wiseass." Peter kissed him, long and luxurious, and snagged the hat from his head. "This takes me back. And this." He tossed the hat on top of the crate and ran his thumbs along the sharp lines of Victor's jaw.

"Don't get used to it. I'm growing the beard back, starting now."

"I wouldn't have it any other way." Peter hugged him, grateful for everything about him. Then he pulled back to meet his gaze and added, awkwardly, "Listen, Sinbad, I don't want you to think I only love you for your former wild ways. You, all of us, the way we are together—that's the real thing."

"Hey, I get it," said Victor. "It was nice to get a glimpse of your badass FBI super-agent side again too, but—" He shrugged easily.

"Disneyland," said Peter. "Nice to visit, wouldn't want to live there."

"Yeah, exactly." Victor grinned and waggled his eyebrows. "And also the diametric opposite of Disneyland, in that that was definitely not a G-rated show."

"You a bit sore there?"

"Maybe a little." He kissed Peter again and then brushed his lips over the bruise. "No regrets, though. We're definitely doing that again sometime. And in the meantime, aren't you going to open your present?" He stood back and produced a small crowbar from somewhere, prompting Peter to make a half-hearted _is that a crowbar in your pocket?_ joke.

He eyed the crate cautiously. It really was about the size of the missing Cornell; maybe Victor had made a copy of that along with the Van Goghs. It couldn't be the original. Peter stood the crate on end on the armchair and glanced at Victor, who gave an encouraging nod.

It was easy enough to pry the front panel loose, and when he did, the tide of lime suckers that spilled from the crate to the chair and onto the floor made him laugh out loud. Victor unwrapped one and stuck it in Peter's mouth. "Itch scratched, Agent Burke?"

"Well and truly," said Peter. He scooped the rest of the suckers back into the crate and put it safely on the bookshelf, so Satchmo wouldn't wolf them down in the night, then gave Victor a warm squeeze on the shoulder. "Come to bed. El's waiting."

 

END


End file.
